What Do You See, Doc?
by SmilinForYa
Summary: "Ah the normal questions are endless. Let's try something unoriginal: what do you see, Doc? Forget everything you've learned from your little textbooks and professors, pay attention to the present and what you just learned. What do you see in me?"


He looked different with no paint.

His skin looked like rough sandpaper, blemishes of harsh scars smeared on his skin, the skin that surrounded his sinister, eerie eyes that could make a grown man cry from the devastating coercion. His lips seemed pale and dry without the red paint, and they seemed even wider than normal with the scars. Without the paint to emphasize his scars, the scars looked like mere indentions to his face. They did look highly painful, and would hardly go unnoticed, but they looked less noticeable without the paint to highlight them. Whenever he wore the paint, he looked like he was constantly smiling because he smeared the paint over his lips and the scars—fusing them into one long line that twisted upward like the Cheshire cat's smile. But now, when he frowned, it was very easy to see. The scars looked more like an addition. His hair still held that greenish tint to it, though one could see that he originally had blonde hair.

One could also tell he's been locked up for awhile. He fidgeted frequently, his fingers fumbling with one another as if he was itching to do _something_ other than be locked in a cell with nothing but a toilet and a bed. His eyes were always absorbing everything in a room, either because it was suddenly fascinating to see something other than a toilet or bed or wall, or simply because it was a habit of his. He took everything in like a dry sponge and never hesitated to do so.

He always kept his uniform perfectly unruffled, unlike some of the other patients who don't even have enough decency to fold them once washed. When takes his to wash, they're already folded. When they're done drying, he immediately folds them again. One would think that since he promoted anarchy—everything against _order_—that he would care less about his uniform. But the truth was rather shocking, but it was still the truth.

He rarely talked to other patients. Sure he was rarely able to even get out of his cell, but even when he was, he only talked to the guards. He even regarded the other patients like he was higher than them, and would make rude gestures when one was having a "moment" and roll his eyes.

The guards hated him. They treated him like the lowest of the filth. Even the fellow doctors wouldn't look at him. They couldn't be scared of him, for when he wore his Arkham Asylum uniform with his nametag, he didn't look dangerous. He looked like a puppy with its tail between its legs—submissive and not a danger to anyone. Having his hands handcuffed helped his appearance, and without his paint, well, he looked like any normal patient. That is, if you looked past the scars all on his face. And for some reason, when one looked in his eyes, it was like they saw a flashback of everything he's seen—from death to destruction, and it frightened many people. Everyone was unnerved to have someone as dangerous as him here, though it should've been expected. They simply hated him for all the trouble he caused Gotham for the past weeks, almost month.

The Joker was only in Gotham for almost a month, and he caused so much damage that he was considered a terrorist. He pledged so much terror into so many people's daily lives that he became the nationwide "boogeyman". Just hearing his name was like hearing a curse word—something that should never come out of anyone's mouth.

It was like the town of Gotham just tried to forget about him after finally locking him up. They wanted to throw him into the shadows, and forget about him to move on with their lives.

So they dumped him on Doctor Harleen Quinzel.

Harley definitely had no experience, for she was new to being a psychologist. But she had remarkable averages, and had high respects among many highly experienced doctors at such a _young_ age that she should be considered a prodigy. She was almost famous around the asylum, and everyone knew who Harleen Quinzel was.

Harleen knew how much work she spent to get here, so she appreciated every single thing that was offered to her. Especially being sent here to Arkham Asylum—the most famous asylum's in the USA—to intern, well, she was more excited that a kid on their birthday. And when they asked her to have the Joker—the nation's most feared and bizarre man—she couldn't turn it down.

Harleen could remember those late nights working at local bars or diners just to get a few more bucks in for college. And it all paid off. Now she was on the news for having the guts to treat the Joker, and even got her own office in Arkham Asylum. She was here to stay, and she never felt so complete in her life.

But after having sessions with the Joker for weeks, she realized how little progress she made. She still didn't know his true name, where he grew up, his age, or any details about him personally. He always told her his philosophies and his opinions about the hot things nowadays, but he never really answered her questions. He always answered her questions with a rhetorical question, or a statement that would cause him to burst out laughing.

When she first met him, she went back to her office to see a red flower in a glass vase that said, "Come down and see me some time—J." She did feel slightly flattered, but mostly disturbed to know he got out of his room or sent someone to put this in her office. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but take out the delicate flower and smell it—and it was a new rose, which was the symbol for romance.

She tried not to let him use his charms and persuasion on her. But he was a charming man, despite the things he committed, and sometimes she did feel like she was giving in.

It was as if he caught her with a fishing rod, and she was the fish that dangled, its mouth caught from the trap. And he was trying to reel her in with his deceiving affiliation, but she was still holding onto a nearby rock, struggling to keep her ground. And she was gradually losing momentum, and someday, she may just go overboard and become the Joker's trophy.

* * *

><p>"Why do you do the things you do?" Harleen asked one day, the pen in her hand ready to write anything important down.<p>

"Believe it or not, Doc, I used to be a normal human being. I used to go to school and have work. I used to worry over pointless things, just like everyone else. I used to go through the phases of a boring lifestyle. But then I decided, 'What the heck?' Why waste this life _blending_ in with everyone? Why not stand out?" Harleen knew he was lying—his life wasn't too normal. He had to have gotten those scars from something that happened in his childhood, but there was too little she knew so she couldn't conclude anything just yet. "So, I tried showing everyone what it was like to do something different for a change."

"But the things you do are bad. They have rules for a reason."

"Rules Schmules." The Joker scoffed. "I would say that rules were made to be broken, but I'm not going to bother." He cracked a grin. "Oops. I just said it."

Harleen tried not to smile, but she found it oddly adorable when he grinned. She blushed. She most certainly should _not_ be thinking like this during a session.

"I say that everyone should live life like it was all just one big stage. One point of your life is one act, and the next one is the next act. But, see, everyone nowadays just lives in one boring ol' act."

"You once mentioned something about the world burning. Something burning." Harleen clicked her pen. "What was that all about?"

"If the world was somehow set on fire," The Joker explained, "I would be the first into the flames."

"So you _want_ to die?"

"No. If I wanted to just get it over with, I'd hang myself with the blankets on my bed." The Joker grinned mischievously. "But dying is another phase in life. Everyone dies. It's inevitable. So why waste your precious time worrying over death if it's going to happen anyway?"

Harleen nodded and clicked her pen again. She couldn't help but find his little theories reasonable, though most would think she was crazy as he was.

"Let's move onto something else." Harleen prompted after awhile. Usually the Joker was more conversational, but when he got quiet, that was a sign to change the subject. "Let's talk about your childhood."

"Let's talk about _your_ childhood." The Joker shot back, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Remember? That was the first thing I said when you first asked me that question. Why is my childhood so important anyways?"

"Because sometimes your childhood can explain many things."

"I'm, deep down, an artist." The Joker flipped his messy hair back arrogantly. "I see many things differently than people, as if you couldn't already tell. Even with my childhood, you'd never be able to explain me."

Harleen looked up in shock. That sounded more like a challenge—as if he was _daring_ her to figure him out. She hid a smirk, and put on her poker face, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

"What kind of artist are you?" Harleen asked.

The Joker said, "An _anarchy_ artist."

"Explain what you mean when you say that you see everything differently than everyone else. Like, are you colorblind?"

"I don't have schizophrenia. I just see things differently. For instance, when I look at you," He held up his fingers as if to capture the very angle. "I see a teenage girl in a woman's body."

"Excuse me?"

"I see an immature, bubbly blonde that could be _very _attractive. A girl who's good at gymnastics after taking lessons for five years."

Harleen was puzzled. "How do you know so much about me?"

"Told ya. I see differently. Let me see if I can figure you out with your childhood." The Joker leaned back, licking his dry lips. "Your parents were strict and wanted you to have the highest grades. So you decided to rebel and took gymnastics behind their back in high school. But then you realized you wanted to go into psychology in college, but they didn't like that." Harleen felt her eyes water in pure shock, her entire body freezing. It was like he was explaining her entire life story, and she didn't like it at all. "They wanted you to be a nurse, for they thought that psychologists were all crazy. So you ran away, earned your own money by working out late at night at local pubs, and eventually had enough to go to college. However, you've lacked childish experiences at a younger age, so now, deep down, you're a child but you're trapped in a grown woman's body. You were raised like an adult—and you were forced to act like one—so now, you want to be like a child and have some fun." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "And, I do believe that's it."

Harleen felt a tear slip past her cheek, and before the Joker even noticed, she quickly wiped it away and looked up in an attempt to stop upcoming tears. She was breathing quickly from the hidden emotions, and the Joker looked at complete ease.

"You should dye your hair." The Joker suddenly said. "You don't look like a brunette. You look more like a blonde."

_How could he act like he didn't just stab me with everything he said_? Harleen thought miserably. She struggled to keep her composure, though she was shriveling inside.

Suddenly, the Joker began asking passionate questions, pressing his hand to his forehead dramatically as if mocking the fellow doctor's cliché questions. "Am I _crazy_? Do I have some kind of disorder? Multi personality, or perhaps bi polar issues?" His voice rose to make the passion more intense. "Is there even something wrong with me? What's my, uh, motive for what I _do_?"

Harleen watched him silently, her lower lip still quivering. Her hands were trembling. It was like he used her own trick against her, and it hurt more than ever.

Even then, she felt different. Not flattered, but special. Like special because he noticed something about her that nobody else has—not even her own _parents_. The Joker was smart, _very_ smart indeed.

The Joker licked his lips. "Ah the normal questions are endless. Let's try something unoriginal: what do _you_ see, Doc? Forget everything you've learned from your little textbooks and professors, pay attention to the present and what you just learned. What do you see in _me_?"

Harleen licked her lips. "I-I think we should—"

"—tell me," The Joker snapped, "what you see. Come now, don't stray from the question. And be honest. I want the truth."

_No patient should talk to their doctor like that_, Harleen thought, though she said nothing about it.

"I see a man," Harleen said weakly, "with a scarred past."

The Joker smirked. "And? What else?"

Harleen squirmed in her seat, as if she was being asked a difficult math problem that she didn't know the answer to. "Who is trying to, um, make a change in the world."

"There we go!" The Joker clapped enthusiastically, and he even whistled once. "Now we're getting' somewhere. How'd you know I wanted to, uh, make a change in the world?"

Harleen took a few moments to think, and then a smile crept along her lips. She knew the answer. "Because when you said that you didn't want to live a meaningless life, you wanted to change the world instead of leaving it be. When you died, you wanted there to be something left of you—something commemorated. Even when you die, there will always be people who will remember you." Harleen nibbled on her lower lip. "You just want to be remembered."

"Jackpot." The Joker said softly, as if he was genuine. "And promise me one thing, Doc."

"Hm?"

"Never, _ever_, let what other people tell you get to you. If you, uh, want to be the president, be the president!" He winked. "You'd make a hot— "

The door opened with a guard standing there. "Doctor Quinzel, time's up. It's been an hour."

Harleen gathered all her work and pencils up, avoiding the Joker's stare and impressed smile.

"Do you want to die and not be remembered?" The Joker whispered as Harleen walked by. "Or would you like to do something so ridiculous that it keeps you _alive_ for ages?"

Harleen left the room completely silent, but she knew the answer perfectly well.

* * *

><p>AN: I actually got the inspiration to write this from a picture off of deviantart, and I want to thank them for creating something so beautiful about Harley Quinn and the Joker! Check it out guys, it's pretty cool. Also, the Harleen Quinzel may not seem as bubbly as the one in the show, but I decided to take my own approach on all this.

Follow this link and you'll find the picture. Be sure to delete the spaces and whatnot:

http: /browse . deviantart . com/?qh=§ion=&q=xT ERYLx#/d2n1az5

Anyway, I hope all of you liked this. This is just a oneshot, and I don't think I'll be continuing it. You can ask me, but I doubt I'll do it, no offense! I just don't know where I'd take it off xD

Thanks for checking this little oneshot out, and I ask for you all to review. I'm an author that likes to approve on writing, so please help me out! Thank you all!

:)SmilinForYa:)

PS: THE JOKER KICKS ASS!


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